don't make me a target

here come the man from the stars, we don't know why he go so far, and keep on marching along, beatin' his drum, thugs and stick and bats and balls, for nuclear dicks with dialect drawls, they come from a parking lot town, where nothing lives in the sun, don't make me a target, when you reach back in his mind, feels like he's breaking the law, there's something back there he got, that nobody knows, he never claimed to say what he says, he smells like the inside of closets and stairs, the kind where nobody goes, don't make me a target.